The Stash
by allthingsdecent
Summary: After their breakup, Cuddy finds House's secret stash of Vicodin.


**So three post-Bombshells fics in a row. How very. . . me. **

**Anyway, for the purposes of this fic there's no Dominika, cause I can't be expected to write around that whore for every story, can I? (Ahem). Also, members of my inner sanctum will recognize part of this fic from a fragment I wrote several months ago. I finally figured out a way to use it in a full story. Anyway, angst sandwich ahead. Will there be a happy ending? I'm sure the suspense is killing you. (Ha.) xo, atd**

_When the pain got bad, he panicked._

_There's really no other word for it: A kind of blind panic, a sense of dread that overwhelmed him. _

_This is why addicts, even recovering addicts like himself, kept a stash around. Because of the fear. Because one night, the pain could become unbearable and what if there were no pills? On a night like that, death seemed the preferable option._

_House hadn't had a lot of nights like that since he had been dating Cuddy. He was happy—or at least his version of happy. His body was no longer a slave to addiction. The pain was manageable, for the most part, with ibuprofen. But sometimes it wasn't. _

_Sometimes he woke up in the middle of the night and it was all he could not to howl like an animal, not to cut himself to release endorphins, leave a bloody blade in Cuddy's sink. _

_And this was one of those nights. _

_He snuck out of bed, like a thief in the night, sat on the couch, rocking back and forth, coated in sweat. _

_And he thought about his stash. _

_Four pills. That was all he needed. Four little pills and the pain would go away and the fear and the blackness. Four pills and he could hold his lady close and finally get some sleep and it would all be over. _

_No one could blame him. It wouldn't mean he was an addict again. It would just be one night. One merciful night of relief._

_So he crept down the hall, opened the closet in the guest room, climbed on the step ladder and pulled out the tool box. _

_Inside the tool box—a wrench, a screwdriver, a box of lead pencils, some batteries, and, hidden within a small compartment of nails, his Vicodin. _

_He took out the bottle, stared at for a second._

_The relief it promised almost made him cry. If your head was in a vice and if that vice was getting tighter and tighter—suffocating you, killing you, and all you had to do was take four little pills to save yourself, you'd do it, wouldn't you?_

_He shook the pills into his palm. _

_And then, unexpectedly, his mind flashed to Rachel, sleeping in her bed, smiling (what could she possibly always be dreaming about that made her so damn happy?) and it flashed to Cuddy, and the tiny groan of discontent she had made when he had rolled out from under her that night—and he thought: You can't do this, you idiot. They are your life. Your best life. And if you swallow these pills, you won't deserve them. _

_So through his agony, he took one of the pencils and scrawled a reminder to himself on pill bottle: "RACHEL AND CUDDY" he wrote. His hand was shaking so much, he didn't recognize his own writing._

_RACHEL AND CUDDY._

_This is why you don't take the pills, he thought—and never will. This is why you fight. _

#####

Ever since breaking up with House, Cuddy had to find new ways to occupy herself.

As long as she was busy, focused on a task, things were good. But when she allowed herself to sit—or stew—she got angry . . . or sad. She found herself hating him . . . or longing for him.

She was, to put it mildly, very emotional these days.

Today's distracting task? Cleaning the guest closet.

She was making piles: Things to throw out, things to keep, things that made you wonder "What the hell were you thinking when you bought that"?

She reached for an out-of-style scarf in the back of the closet—pink and fuzzy—when the wool caught on the edge of a rusty old toolbox. She pulled, a little too roughly perhaps, and the scarf came tumbling down—along with the tool box, two photo albums, and three board games.

The contents of the tool box and the games spilled to the floor. She tried to reassemble everything—the sand timer went with the Boggle game, the miniature thimble went with the Monopoly board, the screwdriver went in the toolbox. A bunch of nails had scattered across the Persian rug and she decided to secure them more safely in the toolbox, so she opened a small compartment.

And that's when she saw it: A bottle of Vicodin.

Her breath caught in the back of her throat.

_House had stashed Vicodin in her home. _

Her mind flashed to several months earlier: She had dragged House, against his will, of course, to a flea market. There was an amateur painter selling somewhat pedestrian landscapes and still lifes. One painting had caught her eye—something about the lake and the tiny boats in it reminded her of her family's vacation spot in Connecticut.

"I want it," she said.

"It looks like a paint by numbers," House had teased, so loudly that she feared the artist might hear. She elbowed him.

"Seriously," he whispered. "Rachel's fingerpaintings are more sophisticated."

"Shut up, I like it," she had said.

So House had rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet, and bought it for her.

She wanted to hang it in the hallway right away.

"I'll do it," he had said, quickly.

And she had been so impressed, pleased, thinking he was getting domesticated.

_In fact, he didn't want her near the toolbox. Near his pills._

She looked down at the bottle in dismay.

Then she noticed something strange: There was faded writing over the prescription label, in pencil. House's handwriting, but a little shaky. She squinted to read:

"RACHEL AND CUDDY" it said.

####

"I need to talk to you," Cuddy said to House, the next day in the DDx room.

"So talk," he said, coldly.

She glanced around the table. Chase, Taub, and Foreman were looking at her expectantly.

"Alone," she said.

"Anything you can say to me, you can say to my highly overpaid worker drones," House said.

Cuddy gave House one last pleading look. He stared back at her defiantly.

"Did you stash Vicodin in my house?" she said finally, putting her hands on her hips.

"O-_kaaaay_, I'll go check on the patient," Taub said, popping up.

"I'll supervise him," Chase said.

"And I'll, uh, supervise his supervision," Foreman said, following them.

"Nice Cuddy," House said, once they were gone.

"I asked you a question: Did you stash any Vicodin in my house?"

House clenched his jaw a bit. He was quiet for a long time.

"There may have been one bottle in the toolbox in the guest closet," he said, finally. "I wasn't planning on being unceremoniously dumped, so I didn't think to take it with me."

His tone was testy, accusatory. But at the same time, she knew he was telling the truth.

"And that's it?" she said, evenly.

He shrugged.

"That's it."

"I have a three year old daughter who likes to get into things, House. I need to know if there's any other stash."

"That's it," he repeated. "Why would I lie? Because you might _break up with me_?"

"I believe you," she said.

"Oh, thank God," House said, in mock relief.

"Because I found them," she said. "Your pills. The one's in the toolbox."

He stared at her.

"So this was a test?"

"Not a test. . . Well, not exactly. You know I can't have drugs around Rachel."

House looked the floor.

"I never used once in your house. Not one single time," he said.

"I know you didn't," Cuddy said, her voice a bit more gentle this time. "I saw what you wrote on the pills."

House's neck turned red, but he didn't say anything.

"Why did you write our names on the pill bottle?" Cuddy said.

"You know why," he said.

"To remind you all that was at stake," she said, softly.

"And how right I was," House said. "Although even I couldn't have predicted the speed with which you dropped me like a bad habit after one moment of weakness."

"It wasn't. . ."

"I know. It wasn't the pills. It was _what_ _they represented_," he quoted, by rote.

Then he looked up, "Speaking of which. Did you happen to bring my stash with you? I'm running low."

She closed her eyes. She felt like shit.

"I wish you'd stop using," she said.

"Why?"

"Because you're throwing away almost two years of sobriety."

"I have no reason to stay sober," he said, pointedly.

"Of course you do."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"Your . . . health. Your well-being, mentally and physically."

"For your purposes, I'm as good a doctor as I've ever been. Better, in fact." He folded his arms. "Fewer distractions."

"I don't care about that."

"Then what do you care about, Cuddy?"

"I care about you," she said, feebly.

House laughed loudly and derisively.

"You have a funny way of showing it," he said.

"I feel like. . ."

"Like what?"

"I feel like I wasn't fully supportive of your sobriety. I should've been more aware of your pain, your struggles. But you hid them from me."

"That's because it was _my_ pain, _my_ struggles, not yours."

"I could've helped you."

"I did just fine on my own."

"I'm not saying you didn't," she said. "I just wish you had asked for my help."

"And what exactly could you have done?"

"I don't know House. Cared for you. Been there for you. Held you in my arms."

For a moment, they exchanged a longing look.

Then House averted his eyes, recovered.

"Are we done here?" he said, quickly.

She felt deflated.

"Why are you being such an ass?"

"I guess I was just born that way, baby," he said.

She sighed.

"I'm trying to apologize here."

"You have nothing to apologize for."

"I do. . I feel like I didn't appreciate your sobriety as much as I should have," she said.

"We always appreciate things more when they're gone," he said flippantly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Vicodin. With a grin, he tossed one into his mouth.

But years of practice had trained her to ignore his provocations.

"Let me help you get clean again," she said.

"Why?"

"Because I want to help you," she said.

"And I repeat: Why?"

"Because you . . . wrote Rachel and Cuddy on a bottle of pills," she said, honestly.

"So what? It came as some sort of shock to you that I was in love with you?"

"No," she said. "I guess it surprised me that you loved me—and Rachel—_that _much."

"Well, that was then, this is now."

Cuddy had a headache—the kind you got when you were working really hard to hold back tears.

"I don't know House. Maybe I can help you get sober and then maybe we can. . .try again."

She thought he would be pleased by this development, but he continued to stare at her with some contempt.

"So now you're dangling the prospect of getting back together as a _reward_ if I get clean?"

"I didn't mean it like that," she said. He was twisting everything she said.

"How did you mean it?"

"I don't know what I meant," she admitted.

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to get back together? That I've moved on with my life? That I'm _over you_?"

Cuddy felt her lower lip begin to tremble. Actually, that had not occurred to her.

"House, I just want you to get clean, okay? If not for me, then for yourself."

"Or else what?" he said.

"Or else nothing," she said. "This is not an ultimatum. Your job isn't jeopardy. This is just me. Worried about you."

"Oh yes," he said. "You are the soul of compassion. Lisa Cuddy, patron saint of abandonment."

"Fuck you," she said.

"Aaaaand she's back," he said.

She had the pill bottle in her pocket. Now she took it out, threw it at him—hard.

"Here!" she said, as he fumbled to catch it. "If you want the God damned pills so much, take them!"

And she stormed out of his office, as he stared, dumbly, at the names of the ones he loved he had written one agonizing night in the dark.

#####

That night, at about 10 pm, there was the sound of a cane rapping against her door.

She had been in bed reading—or at least pretending to read. Mostly she had been obsessing over House and their depressing conversation from earlier that day. (Had he really fallen out of love with her? _Could_ you fall out of love with someone that fast? And why wasn't he willing to hear her apology?)

She put on slippers, padded to the entranceway.

"What do you want?" she sighed, not even bothering to look through the peephole to confirm it was him.

She opened the door.

He was wearing an overcoat, although it was late April. He was pale, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat.

"My God," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. "What happened to you?"

"Here," he said. He handed her a crushed paper bag. She hadn't even noticed that he was holding it.

She looked in the bag. It was filled with pills. Hundreds and hundreds of white pills.

"That's all of them," he said thickly.

She closed her eyes. He was detoxing.

"Why are you bringing me your pills, House?"

"Because you want me to get clean. So I found all the pills and I put them in the bag. I didn't take any."

She took the bag from him, put it on the floor.

"How did you get here?" she asked.

"I drove," he said.

"Are you out of your mind?"

"I'm not on drugs. Isn't that when you're _supposed_ to drive?" he asked—a bad attempt at a joke. He was so unsteady on his feet, he could barely stand up straight.

"Come sit down," she said, leading him to the couch. "How long since you've taken Vicodin?"

"When did we have our little . . .confab in my office?" he said.

"Eight hours ago, House." He was turning a bit green. "My God, are you okay?"

"I think I'm gonna . . . hurl," he said. And proceeded to throw up on her living room rug.

#####

She made him ginger tea and held his hand and watched him shake and vomit and writhe in pain.

At one point, he took the throw pillow off her couch and bit it and screamed into it—loudly.

"What'd you do that for?" Cuddy said.

"I didn't want to wake up Rachel," he said, through chattered teeth.

Finally, fitfully, he fell asleep.

She covered him with a blanket, put a bucket next to the couch and a glass of water on the coffee table.

For almost an hour, she watched him sleep.

He was kicking and bucking, as though fighting imaginary foes.

"I didn't mean to!" he said out loud at one point. And she thought, ironically: That could be referring to one of a hundred things.

She was exhausted herself. She went to her bedroom and fell asleep alone in her big bed.

In the morning, she thought perhaps she had dreamt him.

But when she walked into the living room, he was there, still on the couch.

But now, her three-year-old daughter was standing beside him, poking his face with her finger.

"Wake up, Howse. Wake up," Rachel said.

His eyes went to half-mast.

"Hiya kid," he said, wearily.

"Why are you on the couch?" she said.

House scratched his head.

"I guess I fell asleep," he said.

"Sweetie, leave House alone. He's sick," Cuddy said.

"No," he said. "It's okay. Have a seat, shorty." He tapped on the edge of the couch and scooted over a bit to make room for her. She hopped up next to him.

"What's new?" he asked, in a hoarse voice. "Is that creepy Dudley kid in your class still eating dirt?"

"Now he eats clay, too!" Rachel said, giggling.

Her giggle must've been a little too loud, because House groaned a bit, rubbed his head.

"Like Play-do?" he said wearily. "Gross."

"And sometimes he puts it in his nose!"

"Play-do snot?"

"Yes! Play-do snot!" Rachel squealed, approvingly.

House closed his eyes, rubbed his temples.

"Rachel, let's get ready for school," Cuddy said.

"No," House said. "Tell me more, Rach. Did mama finally buy you that robot dog I told you about?"

"Yeah!" Rachel said. "I'll got get it!"

And she ran into her bedroom—a blur in footied pajamas.

"You don't have to humor her," Cuddy said.

"I'm not . .I like it. She's distracting me."

Cuddy looked at him.

"How do you feel?" she said.

"Better," he said.

His eyes were bloodshot, his hair was standing up on end, and there was dried vomit crusted on his lips.

"Good. Because you look like shit," she said, with a tiny smile.

"Gee, thanks."  
"What do you want? More water? Tea? You think you can handle some broth?"

"I'll try," he said.

She made the broth, as Rachel came skidding back into the room, wielding her robot dog.

"Woof!" she said. "Woof woof!"

"Cool," House said. "What did you name it?"

"Rob."

"Rob the Robot. Emily Dickinson you're not, kid."

From the kitchen, she watched him play with her. House's movements were dull, blunted. But Rachel was positively thrilled to have her old playmate back, no matter what his condition.

Cuddy ladled the broth into a bowl and brought it for him.

"Can you sit up?" she said.

He nodded.

He sat up on the couch. She fed him a spoonful.

"Why is mama feeding you?" Rachel said.

"Because she's a good person," House said, looking at Cuddy out of the corner of his eye. "An angel of mercy."

"Because he's sick," Cuddy explained. "We take care of our friends when they're sick."

She fed House another spoonful of broth and he gagged on it.

Then he grabbed the bucket and promptly threw up.

"Mama!" Rachel said, scared.

"It's okay, sweetie. He's okay. Why don't you go to your bedroom and pick out a fun outfit for today? I'll be right in."

Rachel put her little chubby hand on top of House's.

"I'm sorry you're sick, Howse," she said.

"Yeah," he said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Me too."

"Maybe mama will rub your belly," Rachel said. "That's what she does when I womit."

And she ran off.

Cuddy chuckled.

"I will not be rubbing your belly," she said to House.

"Too bad," he said with a weak smile. "That sounds kind of nice right now."

Cuddy gave him a slight smile. Then she looked at her watch.

"I'm going to drive her to school and then come back and spend the day with you," she said.

"You can't!" House said. "You have that external planning committee at 2."

She shook her head. Somehow, no matter what the status of their relationship, he always managed to know her schedule.

"I'll get the assistant dean to fill in," she said.

"But I should probably go home, right?" he said. "My presence here is probably confusing to Rachel."

"Why shouldn't she be confused?" Cuddy said, with a tiny shrug. "I'm confused. You're confused. We can all be confused together."

"I'm not confused," he said.

"No?" she said.

"No. I know exactly what I want."

"What's that?"

"I want to get clean and I want to be your boyfriend again."

"That's not what you said yesterday. Yesterday you said you were over me."

"I lied."

"House there's no way this can work, if we're not honest with each other. No chance."

"I agree," he said. "So what are you feeling?"

"Confused," she said. "But happy."  
########

_The pain came, out of the blue. _

_It had been three months since he'd moved back in with Cuddy and Rachel, and there had been no pain at all. He'd been coasting on an endorphin high of great sex with Cuddy and all around relief and happiness. Hell, he'd barely needed his ibuprofen._

_But that night, it was back—an unwelcome guest, a recurring nightmare, a demon that would apparently haunt him for the rest of his life. _

_He climbed out of bed, grimacing, rubbing his leg. The pain was searing and the panic was beginning to set in._

_Cuddy felt for him in her sleep, gave a tiny sigh of dissatisfaction. _

_He started to creep into the living room, thinking about cutting himself, or maybe taking a cab to the hospital to get some pills. _

_And then he looked at Cuddy. Her eyelashes fluttered. She was hugging his pillow._

_He shook her arm. _

"_Cuddy," he whispered._

_Her eyes opened. _

"_What's wrong?" she said. Her face registered concern, not annoyance._

"_My leg hurts." _

THE END


End file.
